


Fallout

by Blue_Sunshine



Series: The Desert Storm [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Gen, Jedi Culture, Jedi Temple (Star Wars), Jedi are Gossips, Lightsaber Combat, Master & Padawan Relationship(s), Nightmares, Padawan training, Tatooine Slave Culture, The Force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-18 10:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18247679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Sunshine/pseuds/Blue_Sunshine
Summary: The training of the Learner is the prerogative of the Master.Supposedly.





	1. Chapter 1

Master Windu had personally escorted ( _marched_ ) Master Naasade and Padawan Kenobi to the Halls of Healing the moment they returned to the Temple, releasing them into the tender ( _furious_ ) care of the Healers.

Obi-Wan, who had slept in fits and starts their entire trip home was the subject of much empathy from the Healers and vicious lectures offered to his Master. He was absolutely forbidden from any psychic activity beyond the mundane, to include deep meditation and any Force Techniques practice, so his natural shields could be allowed to heal without stress. This restriction was expressed to him and his master several times, with very illicit promises of punishment should they even think about straying from the Healer’s instructions.

“I’m not actually trying to kill my padawan!” Ben insists.

No one entirely believes him, save Obi-Wan, but Obi-Wan was napping at the time, and therefor unable to defend his master’s honor.

Ben, on the other hand, was put on light-duty restrictions, and forbidden from any activity that required more excursion than walking. He also had a list of instructions as long as his arm about all the various ways in which he was to avoid testing the limits of the fragile weave holding his skin and muscles together.

Neither of them was a pretty sight as they shuffled uncomfortably back to their quarters, and neither of them were particularly pleasant to engage on the way. One poor knight found himself the subject of eerily similar expressions of pinched impatience and equally irritated responses when he inquired as to the details and success of their mission. One poor padawan made the mistake of offering sympathies for their clearly rough assignment and received in return the cold rebuff of two individuals who refused to admit to experiencing any difficulties whatsoever.

“I call dibs on the blanket.” Obi-Wan mutters, as they approach their quarters.

“Pardon?” Ben shoots him a glance that is harsher than he realizes. Obi-Wan returns it mulishly.

“I call dibs on the blanket.” Obi-Wan repeats, slightly louder and clearer.

“Oh really?” Ben drawls. “Why is that?”

“Because I _earned_ it.” Obi-Wan huffs.

“I was imprisoned.” Ben points out.

“I had to run through the jungle all night while you got to sleep.” Obi-Wan retorts.

“I was knocked unconscious via blunt force trauma.”

“You wrecked my shields.” Obi-Wan pulls out the low blows.

“I assured that the Jedi didn’t come in to slaughter the Kaleesh.” Ben challenges his padawans protest.

“I challenged the _Khagan_ of Kalee to fight me.”

“You _what_?” Ben exclaims, turning a sharp frown on his padawan, whose eyes widen as if recalculating what he has just admitted to.

“To stop them from attacking Kirsk, and fighting the Jedi.” Obi-Wan explains hurriedly, nervously fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

“You _fought_ Qymaen Jai Sheelal?” Ben utters in disbelief.

“Well…no.” Obi-Wan admits. “He wouldn’t fight me.”

His master sighs in relief, and lays a tired hand on his padawans shoulder. He glances back down out of the corner of his eye. “Then that doesn’t count.” He mutters. Obi-Wan scowls back up at him. “ _I_ was nearly cut in half.”

“Yes.” Obi-Wan acknowledges, a cool look in his blue-green eyes. “And _I_ was nearly made Masterless.”

Ben winces, recalculating _his_ claim. “Yes…well, I _suppose_ a Jedi Master should show grace, and allow his padawan their comforts in times of…distress.”

“I am not in distress!” Obi-Wan protests, flushing. Ben lifts a brow, and his padawan scowls, flushing a deeper red. “Thank you, master, for being so gracious and understanding. It’s a _wonder_ all the Temple isn’t in _awe_ of your example.”

Ben’s lips actually part at that cuttingly dry remark, and then he finds himself laughing, which turns into gasping and keening at the pain that causes. His padawan is an immediate flash of concern in the Force, and helps him hobble the rest of the way to their quarters.

~*~

Since Obi-Wan is banned from delving into the Force, for the sake of his own unprotected psyche, his training reverts solely into the physical, and he is actually grateful to fall down exhausted each night, even if he’ll wake stiff-muscled and aching.

If he’s tired enough, he doesn’t dream.

And he does not want to dream.

The galaxy, however, rarely gave one what one wanted.

Click-click-click-clack. Click-click-click-clack. Their blade-arms rattle when they shift, and a dozen pairs of multi-faceted eyes are all watching him, towering above him from across the table. Their eyes are all red, and their bodies are all black. Click-click-click-clack.

Obi-Wan’s hands are slick and coated with blood, where they hold the bowl in front of him. The bowl is empty.

Click-click-click-clack.

The floor is littered with bodies, some long-limbed and broken, some red-brown skinned and spilling out their organs, severed into uneven pieces.

Click-click-click-clack.

The walls are high and polished, as the table is, and he recognizes this place.

The table is in the crèche.

Obi-Wan panics, but he can’t let go of the bowl. Something is on the table, and small hands wave from the moving-

The bodies on the floor are wearing robes, and they are small, so small-

Click-click-click-clack.

Obi-Wan runs. The bowl disappears. The blood on his hands does not.

The bodies are everywhere. They are in the halls and in the gardens and they are so small, and they have been cut down. The halls reek of plasma and scorched flesh, and Obi-Wan runs and runs until he finds himself in the Council Chamber, a circle of chairs he has only seen once. There is a young padawan sprawled across the tile, a saber hilt in his hand and a black hole burned through his back, and behind the chairs are the shadows of those he was protecting, still and cold as he is.

In the center of the room- “Master?” Obi-Wan calls out. The sound should echo. It doesn’t.

His master turns around, eyes red-rimmed with tears, and something soft in is gaze crumples at the sight of Obi-Wan.

“Oh padawan,” He sighs. “You should not be here.”

They wake up.

Obi-Wan jolts into waking and turns, tangled in the black-grey-white blanket, and looks to his masters bed. His masters eyes are open, but he’s staring up at the ceiling, taking slow, measured breathes. His hands are clenched into his sheets.

The quiet is full of expectation, a dozen questions on the tip of Obi-Wan’s tongue.

He doesn’t ask them.

Obi-Wan studies the dim outline of his master’s profile. His cinnamon hair, lighter and more golden than Obi-Wans, washed nearly blue in the dark, his trim beard, the almost straight line of a nose that had probably been broken more than once. So much of his master was a mystery, and so much of him was so familiar.

Tension hums in the Force, a brittle _waiting_ , and his master continues to stare up at the ceiling. Obi-Wan bites his lip and slips off his bed, pads the two-steps it takes to reach his masters, and throws the blanket over the older man. Ben startles, mostly because the blanket lands over his face and he jerks his hands up to yank it off on instinct. Obi-Wan flops onto the mattress and scoots his way back under the edge of the blanket, resting his back against his master’s side and shoving his Master’s arm up and out of the way.

He hears his master sigh softly, and then a hand rests over his hair.

Neither of them manage sleep again that night, but the comfort feels more restful anyhow.

~*~

Obi-Wan can feel the tingle of warning that is not quite pain with every precisely placed step he takes, eyes trained on the floor. His muscles and bones protest quietly, aching from a ten-day of strenuous, unrelenting exercise and a lack of restful sleep. The burn in his muscles is almost pleasant, and all Obi-Wan wants into fall into oblivion. Into deep dark, where there are no nightmares, and as such, he’s looking forward to another thoroughly exhausting training session.

“Obi-Wan,” His master says softly. “It’s your rest day.”

Obi-Wan blinks, surprised, his feet having been following a familiar track through the corridors all of their own accord, and promptly bursts into tears.

The cracking sound his voice makes bounces off the walls as he crumples inward, hands coming up to cover his face, tears running hotly down his cheeks. His master quietly puts supporting hands on his shoulders, and two aghast padawans turn and dart off in the opposite direction.

“Oh padawan.” Ben sighs, and it is so similar to their nightmare that Obi-Wan shudders, wracked by another sob. Without much - if any - compunction, this prompts his master to scoop him up completely and carry him like a youngling back to their quarters. Obi-Wan would protest, but he’s too embarrassed to take his hands away from his face, and too overwhelmed to do more than choke back more loud sobs.

“Th-his c-c-counts as strenuous activ-tivity.” Obi-Wan blubbers, when he can manage, and buries his face against his Master’s shoulder.

“I won’t tell if you won’t, Obi-Wan.” Ben mutters, practically breathing the words into the boys hair.

Shmi no longer startles when they come in the door, even at odd hours, but she does pause, when she watches him carry Obi-Wan into the living area and settle him down on the low, padded grey couch that eventually took residence under their plant-infested window. Ben fetches the black-to-white blanket from their bedroom and bundles the boy up. Shmi, familiar with quiet, comforting rituals, has already stared heating water for tea by the time he has Obi-Wan properly sequestered. Obi-Wan, safe behind the door of their quarters, finally stops trying to force everything back down and gives in to the shaking rattling his frame, and lets his tears soak into his knees, curled tightly in on himself.

Tea is ready by the time he emerges, Ben and Shmi, settled on either side of Obi-Wan, are already nursing their second cups and providing quiet reassurance. Ben has a momentary regret for the fact that Shmi has grown comfortable enough with the Temple to leave Anakin in the crèche from time to time. A lap full of considerate three-year-old, Ben knew, could be remarkably soothing. He himself remembers balancing Luke on his knees, letting himself let go of all the weight of his problems, just for the focus of those desert-sky blue eyes looking into his own. Younglings, also, were far easier to hug.

Obi-Wan sips his tea, and stares dully at the opposite wall, eyes drawn to the play of light on the uncertain shade of pale that made up the tiles in the kitchenette. He can’t quite bring himself to speak, and they don’t press.

When he finally seems to be coming back to himself, it’s late, and Ben leaves Obi-Wan in Shmi’s practiced care, as she soothes over the hurts of his soul with stories that crept into the heart and made a home there, no matter how foreign their origin. Ben makes his way to the nearest Dining Hall, hoping they have something Obi-Wan particularly favors on selection tonight.

He’s barely made it to the serving line to ask a droid to prepare three covered trays when he is ambushed from both sides by Knight Gallia and Master Tahl.

“Ladies.” Ben grumbles, far more concerned with his padawan than with their hostility at the moment, and yet trapped between equally immovable Jedi.

“In light of your injuries and the relief felt at knowing your death was a falsehood, perhaps I awarded too much gratuity to your character, Mater Naasade.” Adi Gallia says darkly. “Clearly, it was undeserved.”

“Oh?” Ben asks icily, his own frustration boiling up at suffering more baseless insults while his padawan _needed_ him. He has not ever truly forgotten what it felt like to be that young and feel so wrong and out-of-place, constantly told his emotions were a burden no one needed, constantly afraid that he would be cast aside for the slightest outburst. That fear had followed him from crèche to Council Chamber, and ruined so much of his life, and so much of Anakin’s.

If he hadn’t always hesitated to speak, to reach out, would Anakin have come to him instead?

“For someone who claims to care for their padawan, you have severely maltreated that child.” Tahl joins in, the towering Noorian Master resting one hand on her hip.

“Maltreated?” Ben snaps.

“You had him in tears today!” Tahl adds, anger coloring her voice. “My padawan was told he all but had an emotional collapse in the hallway, and this even after the Healer’s gave you explicit instructions not cause him any undue stress! For Force’s sake, was destroying his shields not enough for you?”

Ben actually gapes at the two women, who are clearly implying that – that he has pushed Obi-Wan past the breaking point, that his padawan has finally collapsed under the assault of his reportedly cruel master. That he has at the very least emotionally _abused_ his padawan to the point of real harm.

“You do not deserve that boy.” Gallia adds with disgust, and Ben-

There is always that moment, where anger reaches _clarity_. It is no less dangerous than a fogged rage, and often no more logical, but in the space of it, one can act far more deliberately.

“If you wish to challenge me, then challenge me.” Ben says clearly, and several badly eavesdropping knights and masters glance their way. “In fact,” He raises his voice, just enough to carry, to make sure he is _heard_. “ _Anyone_ who can best me can take charge of Obi-Wan’s training for a month, for each victory.”

Tahl and Gallia don’t even hesitate to take a breath. “I accept.” They echo.

~*~

Shmi frowns down at the two teenlings who have been undecorously pounding on the door-chime to the Naasade-Kenobi-Skywalker residence, and they quiver with singing nerves and yet still crowd close, eager to dash past her to find their friend yet too well-mannered to actually do so.

“We really, really need to see him.” Padawan Bant Eerin says, silver eyes wide.

“Please, ma’am.” Quinlan Vos adds quietly, attempting to appear meek and innocent. To Shmi, the boy does so very, very poorly. She has practiced meekness all her life, has survived on the illusion of it, as have many slaves before her, who spoke of freedom in the dark of night, and whispered hope into each others ears, and held revolution ever in their hearts. Meekness is a mask, and not one he wears well.

“Why are you guys here?” Obi-Wan asks, padding up to the door behind Shmi, having heard their voices. She glances back at him in concern – his voice is scratchy, eyes red-rimmed, and the blanket is still drawn around him, as if it could buffer him from the world. He looks so very young.

“Obi!” Bant cries, gills frilled in either excitement or distress. Both, maybe. “Obi-Wan, your master has issued a challenge!”

The red-haired boy stares at her, uncomprehending. “What?”

“Everyone heard that Naasade –“

“Master Naasade!” Bant corrects.

“ – made you cry and so Master Tahl and Knight Gallia confronted him about how bad he treats you, so he issued a challenge!” Quinalin relays with relish.

Obi-Wan pales and then flushes, face turning splotchy, and his eyes start to water again, making him blink furiously. Bant smacks Quinlan’s arm for his lack of tact.

“What challenge?” He asks, voice very low to hide how very close he is to tears, _again_.

Bant looks apologetic. “Anyone who bests him can take charge of your training for an entire month.” She says, then brightens a little. “Master Tahl will treat you much better, I promise.”

Obi-Wan blinks at her, mouth thinning out.

“They’re taking it before the Council now.” Quinlan adds. “It’ll be on the Temple Net officially by tomorrow morning, once they establish formal rules.”

Shmi frowns at this, brows pinched over dark brown eyes. “So he is not coming back with dinner?” She asks pointedly.

Bant’s gills flash red, and Quinlan offers an apologetic shrug. “No?”

“It’s alright.” Obi-Wan sighs. “I’m not hungry anyways.”

Shmi turns her frown on him, her gaze sharp. “You will be eating dinner.” She says firmly, and Obi-Wan’s gaze jerks up. He shuffles a little. “I’d rather not go out.” He whispers.

Shmi’s gaze softens. “You do not have to. Quinlan, Bant, would you be so kind as to fetch Obi-Wan and I some dinner? You are welcome to join us.”

Both of them offer wide, childish grins at that and nod, dashing off. Obi-Wan’s gaze trails after them.

“Tahl isn’t going to best my master.” He says softly.

“Do you wish her to?” Shmi asks, stepping back so the door will close, her hand lifting to settle between his shoulder blades. He leans in to the point of contact, the way a flower leans towards the sun.

His lips quirk a little. “Of course not.” He huffs.


	2. Chapter 2

There is an entirely unsubtle increase of activity in the salle’s that evening and the following morning. As per tradition, the Challenge was formally posted at dawn, and while challenges could be made in person to Master Naasade, they also had to be submitted officially to the forum, else the bout would not be counted.

There was also an entirely unsubtle and widespread exchange of bets. First on the list was Master Tahl, followed directly by Knight Gallia, and the list was ever-growing.

Master Windu, who cornered Ben before breakfast, informed him with aggravation that he had already received no less than a dozen pleas from younger padawans and initiates that he challenge Naasade and ‘rescue’ Padawan Kenobi.

“This, this is exactly what I wanted to avoid, Naasade.” Windu growls. “Have you ever told that many wide-eyed younglings _no_? They were devastated. I do not want to be dealing with this.”

“They weren’t devastated, they were playing you.” Ben snorts. “Younglings know exactly how adorable they are. It’s the test of all crèchemasters not to fold under pressure. You’d have failed spectacularly.”

“Which is why I am not a crèchemaster!” Windu retorts, scowling as a young knight eyes him hopefully. Ben waves pleasantly, and the knight glowers at him.

“It’s remarkable, really.” Ben mutters, once the knight has passed them by.

“What?”

“That no one cares when an initiates heart gets broken and all his dreams torn down as he is sent quietly away from the only life he has ever known, but gods forbid my padawan looks tired by the time I’m done with him.” Ben says.

“ _Tired_?” Windu snorts. “I’ve seen padawans come out of fights with pirates and gundarks and look less ‘tired’ than Kenobi.”

“Not the point I was making, Master Windu.” Ben says quietly, raising an unimpressed brow at the younger Jedi.

“Initiates get sent away.” Mace mutters lowly. “We can’t knight all of them.”

“Perhaps,” Ben accedes. “but that doesn’t mean we couldn’t do better by them.”

Mace grunts in response to that, looking particularly troubled, and gestures for Ben to precede him into the Arena. The Arena isn’t much different than the training salles, save that it was built for an audience, and typically used during Exhibitions, where initiates performed for prospective masters, and padawans and knights occasionally performed during certain celebrations.

Tahl and Gallia are already waiting, both of them conferring on the edge of the dueling floor, and the audience is quickly filling in from more accessible entrances than the meandering route Ben and Mace had taken. Jedi are a quiet people by nature, but the general hubbub of conversation does rise at his appearance.

Ben’s gaze easily tracks to his padawan despite the general press of people, and Obi-Wan turns to meet his gaze, as if sensing the attention. Ben lifts a questioning brow at the crowd of padawans and initiates his padawan has attracted, and Obi-Wan shoots him a grumpy look for it. Clearly, he is unimpressed at being the center of attention.

Ben lifts his hands and signs across the arena. _Made any bets, Bright-One?_

As ever, his padawans ears redden at the sign-name his master has for him, and he signs back slowly, still having to think through every curl of his fingers. _Unfair of me, Storms-Eye._ He signs back petulantly.

Ben’s lips twitch, and his fingers dance. _I didn’t realize gambling was fair._

His padawan gives him a pinched look and crosses his arms, and Ben shakes his head at the boy, who had yet to learn that nobility was more flexible than he realized.

Ben removes his dark brown robe and sets it aside, having worn cream tunics over a soft orange shirt. His padawan had taken mercy on him some months ago, when he noticed his master would only wear two of the least ostentatious shirts in their closet, and returned to the quartermaster for some that came in simple, solid shades of color. He kept the same scheme – light red and soft orange, for his master, and himself returned with a monochromatic wardrobe that matched his favored blanket. He looked striking in all whites, greys, and blacks, and it made him easier to find in a crowd of fellow Jedi, though seeing him in a black robe had unsettled Ben to the point where his padawan must have felt it, as he had switched abruptly to a dark grey and the black robe had never again made an appearance.

Master Tahl takes note of his motion and herself strides to the center of the floor, wearing her preferred lavender and pale blue, which made her honey-toned skin seem to glow. Her bearing is proud and certain, for all that she is a consular archivist by trade, and not a guardian warrior. Then again, she trains with Qui-Gon Jinn, who is a guardian warrior and renowned to be one of the best duelists in the Order.

In the moment, Ben realizes he has never crossed blades with Master Tahl, not even in training. He is not concerned, but this is something new he never had before, and the nostalgia of it strikes him deeply.

There is no ceremonial start to bouts like this. They merely begin when the two combatants are ready, and Jedi, being Jedi, simply recognize the pivotal point, and the audience quiets, though still more are slipping into the chamber.

Ben strides to meet her in the center of the arena, and ignites his blade, giving it an artful twirl that stops abruptly parallel to the center line of his body, and then flicks away in a blades bow. Tahl lifts a brow and counters with a slow, deliberate levelling of her blade, parallel to the floor, and then turning straight up, and striking down and away, a far more aggressive greeting, as it mimed cutting him down, as opposed to miming a salute.

Ben was actually offended by that.

Her disagreement of his training or not, he had thought they were at the least beginning to form a begrudging friendship.

Ben feels his mouth thin with the small ache of personal hurt, and can feel Healer Ni Hiella’s glare off to one side. Technically, and only technically, he is off light-duty restrictions, as the wound across his torso was well on its way to forming a clean scar. However, jumping from light-duty straight into aggressive combat with a horde of Jedi was not an action a Healer approved of. He ignores both and pulls his saber into a soresu guard position, and waits.

He does not have to wait long.

Tahl charges with a high twist, whirling her body into a dive with more force than a simple lunge could offer, and Ben himself steps aside, letting her blade skim down the length of his own and pass him by.

And so it begins.


	3. Chapter 3

The duel with Master Tahl lasts half an hour, and it’s beautiful. Master Tahl, being Noorian, is of a height with Qui-Gon Jinn, and like Master Jinn, she is a practitioner of unexpected Ataru, which favors smaller combatants, as it demands much with its high aerials and leaps. Master Naasade meets her with an implacable Soresu defense, swirling around her aggressive attacks with precise and graceful economy. As a style, Soresu gave up much opportunities for offense, and often waited for the opponent to wear themselves out. Master Tahl, however, was renowned for always having another reserve of energy to call upon, seemingly indefatigable.

So Master Naasade is not, in fact, waiting for her to wear herself out. He waits instead for her to expect his defense, waits for her to study him and plan accordingly, her blows hitting truer, her strikes closer to the mark, and then, when she is sure of the pace of combat, he shifts abruptly from Soresu to an equally oppressive Ataru. Her rhythm falters, and she struggles to catch back up as he dances around her own shaky defense. He leaps where she expects him to dodge, and dives in when she expects him to block, and he catches her in a turn, scoring a training-strength sear across the back and letting his blade hover, humming dangerously under her ear, waiting for a swift _sai cha_ that could end her life.

The match is called.

The audience murmurs, credits exchanging hands and assessments being passed from person to person. Did you see how he moved here? Did you see where she faltered there?

Bant hugs Obi-Wan’s arm sorrowfully. “Master Tahl will try again.” She promises. Obi-Wan sighs.

Tahl and Naasade bow to each other, and the Noorian eyes him with a wary respect before triding off to be checked over by a padawan healer. The sear is more irritating than painful to a full Jedi Knight and Master, but she is given a salve and sent back to the audience.

It is Knight Adi Gallia’s turn.

~*~

Adi is well aware that her reputation is that of diplomat, but reputations can be misleading. She is not a consular Jedi, but a sentinel, and her fighting prowess has never suffered in favor of her duties as a liason between the Order and the Senate.

What most do not know is that she is a master of Djem So, a powerfully aggressive combat form. Master Naasade, she knows, is also a practitioner of Djem So, and she grimly recognizes that he may well be a master of several forms, from the display she just saw. Only his padawan might claim to know, as when they practiced, they generally did so in a private salle, given the general displeasure of most Jedi towards Naasade’s teaching methods.

She had hoped Tahl might be able to engage him for longer, wearing him down for Adi’s assault so that the young Knight might prove able to simply overwhelm the other master, but such was luck.

Naasade’s red-gold hair shades his face, and it never fails to strike her that his eyes are so much older than the rest of him, a burning blue-green with hint of grey. He is handsome, most will admit, and carries the regal bearing most knight could only dream of achieving, and yet…

And yet his pleasant face and his aura of respect hide a man she finds distastefully arrogant, always looking out at his fellow Jedi as if he knows all their secrets and finds them wanting, as if he has the right to judge. And his padawan, a boy who works so hard and fears failure so greatly that he won’t utter a word against the master who claimed him on the eve of his reassignment. Adi feels greatly that he takes advantage of the boys desperation to be a Jedi Knight, and that in the end, he’ll ruin a promising student with his unyielding demands.

There is a shadow around him, the Force always whispering in his wake, none of it intelligible, and it sets Adi’s teeth on edge. Her senses prickle of warning in his presence, and she is not blind to how the Council watches him. Most of the master’s whisper that he was a Shadow, and she does not doubt it, and they whisper more that he was Shadow who slipped too deep into the Dark, and she does not doubt that either. Shadows faced the worst of the galaxy, they did what no one else would – _could_ – do, and they often lost more than anyone could bear, including themselves. She respects the sacrifice and the service of any Shadow, but she will not allow that respect to cloud her judgement as to the reprehensibility of his behavior.

Adi sets her stance, blade held braced near her side, a level line straight out from her grip, and steels herself.

He studies her for a moment, and slides into a form she cannot quite recognize. The audience whispers, then quiets.

Adi takes the first step, and feels her balance slide before she grounds herself in the Force, and his stance becomes clear. He has stepped into Niman, the sixth form, one practiced by diplomats more than anyone else. It had no great advantages, Niman, but no true weaknesses either, a blending of the first five styles together, coupled with maneuvers and attacks purely of the Force. She had not expected it, as there blades meet and she presses and he disappears, and she whirls to block, and then presses him again. She had expected him to display Soresu, or meet her with Djem So, impenetrable defense or meeting aggressive offense with aggressive offense. Niman was difficult to work around, for those who were not familiar with it, as it was a mercurial form, and relied more on ingenuity of use than on the follow-through of practiced katas.

It was, ironically, the form most expected her to practice, and that was precisely the reason why she had not chosen it as a mastery. She had a compact stature, and utilizing Djem So gave her an element of surprise.

She slams forward into his blade, ducks, and slams in again, only to find herself being yanked forward, overbalancing and sending her tumbling. She rolls, leaping back to her feet and parries a blow that makes her stagger when it comes and abruptly disappears without follow-through. She chases him, and he dodges, he strikes, and she blocks and chase again, only for him to meet her straight on, and slam into her not only with his own weight, but with the Force, and she hits the ground again, and rolls, again. She comes up only to her knees and lashes out, sweeping at his legs. He jumps, and comes back down on her with an avalanche fall, and Adi rolls out of the way and pops back up to her feet as his saber strikes the ground with a hiss. She dives for his back only for him to go low and sweep at her legs. Instead of jumping, she leaps forward, colliding bodily with him, which apparently does catch him by surprise.

They both hit the ground with a hard ‘umph’ and he wheezes before she can feel his Force grip cradle her body, and then _fling_ her across the salle. She lands on her toes with a slide, and pauses, breathing heavy. They study each other across the distance, and he offers her a chagrined smile, tipping his head in respect for the unexpected tactic. Adi glowers back at him.

~*~

“Holy sith.” Quinlan murmurs, while Bant just gapes, squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand.

“This is so stupid.” The girl in front of them murmurs, and then turns around to glare at Obi-Wan. “If you would just actually speak up for yourself, they wouldn’t be making such a show of this. It’s a bad example for all padawans. And _prospective_ padawans.” She’s a human initiate, still in white and cream robes, with loose blonde hair and pale, crystal blue eyes, and her arms are crossed and her jaw set, screaming stubbornness.

“I don’t need to speak up for myself.” Obi-Wan retorts. “My master and I are _fine_.”

“Then you’re delusional.” She snorts. “Because the way he treats you is not fine. _No_ other padawan is so roughly handled, and if he’s allowed to keep pushing you well beyond your limits, it sends the message that that is okay, and it _isn’t_. It makes for poor learning, and poor teaching, and that...” She eyes Obi-Wan up and down. “Makes for poor Jedi.” She says scathingly.

“Siri Tachi!” A fellow initate hisses, eyes wide with shock at her behavior, while she continues to glare at Obi-Wan.

“I wasn’t aware that you and I were well enough aquainted that you could judge my worth as a Jedi, initiate Tachi.” Obi-Wan replies coldly. “Or are we all to be judged by the value of rumors?”

She falters slightly, because they may be only a few years apart in age, but no, they didn’t know each other. “ _Everyone_ says-“

“Everyone, really?” Obi-Wan cuts her off. “Master Yoda says I’m mistreated?”

“No.” She says mulishly, and glances at Bant. “But your _best friend_ does, and _her_ master does.”

Obi-Wan sighs, and turns a flat look on Bant. “Have I ever actually complained about my master?”

“N-no.” Bant stutters. “But Obi, I know how much being a Jedi means to you, he could _beat_ you and you wouldn’t say anything! He _did_ destroy your shields!”

“Because he was trying to get a message out to stop a massacre!” Obi-Wan retorts angrily. “And my master does _not_ beat me.” He adds, glaring at everyone shamelessly listening in. “He never asks of me anything I can’t do.”

“But does he ask you to do things you shouldn’t have to do?” Siri counters. “Because I don’t have to ask anyone about anything when we can see you falling asleep on your dinner tray, or every time to mess up the _easiest_ of questions in class, or _breaking down in tears in the hallway_ -“

“Was that _you_?” Obi-Wan snaps. “You had no right!”

“Your master made you cry!”

“He did not!”

“I saw it! You were wincing just to walk and then he said something to you and you just started _crying_ -“

“And then you ran off to tell the entire karking temple!” Obi-Wan glares, fists clenched. Bant flinches, and Quinlan, being Quinlan, pretends the entire conversation isn’t happening right next to him, and instead shoots pointed looks at eavesdroppers. “Which means you didn’t see my master helping me back to our quarters, or sitting with me till I calmed down, or going to get us dinner when _someone_ rudely forced him to issue a challenge. And I was only upset because I’m so kriffing _sick_ of having _nightmares_! How about _you_ sit at a table with baby-eating psychopaths and then try to stop a bloodbath all the while you _know_ your master is in danger and then have your shields wrecked on a planet just screaming with darkness and death and hate and despair and see how long _you_ can hold it together!”

Siri sucks in a sharp breath and then just stares at him, fine blonde brows still angrily drawn together. “Fine. I’m sorry.” She says.

Obi-Wan lets out a huge _whoosh_ of air, still pent up to argue. “What?”

“I’m sorry.” She says sullenly. “I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask!” Obi-Wan snaps. “ _No one_ has actually even _asked_.”

“You actually _like_ the way your master treats you?” She lifts a brow, voice incredulous.

“No.” Obi-Wan scoffs. “It’s demanding and exhausting and it sucks, but it’s making me _better_ , and I _do_ like my master. I don’t _want_ a different one.”

Siri peers at him critically and then shakes her head. “You’re nuts.” She mutters.

“And you’re nosy.” Obi-Wan shoots back. She gives him a pinched look, and then a lopsided smile, holding out her hand. Obi-Wan shakes it with a half-smile of his own.

“Nice to meet you.”

Bant frowns at them both. “Humans make _no_ sense.”

“Hey, don’t judge the whole species by their example.” Quinlan protests. “That’s bias.”

“Quinlan, you’re not human!” Bant rolls her eyes.

“But I _look_ human.” He points out.

There is a loud, grinding snap, and everyone’s attention whips back to the Arena, where Adi Gallia is looking at her lightsaber with betrayal as it sparks and smokes, the blade dying. She takes one even breath, tosses it aside, and bears her teeth at Master Naasade, who disengages his copper blade with a rolling shrug, and tosses his own lightsaber to his padawan, who has to stretch to catch it. The beings around Obi-Wan crowd in, eager to get a good look at it, while the rest of the audience leans in expectantly as the match progresses to pure hand-to-hand combat.

Even without ligtsabers, Naasade and Gallia are well matched, the Knight being only a few inches shorter, and her species being slightly denser than your average human. She lands a kick right over the healing wound on his chest that has several Healers jumping to their feet as Naasade wheezes, but when she lunges in for the advantage, he flips her and slams her down into the ground. She gasps out a groan and kicks at his knees only for him to catch her foot and flip her over. She uses the Force to enhance the motion, and tears herself out of his grip, rolling over her shoulder and back up to her feet. They face each other again, both grimly determined.

Adi Gallia does not win, but she counts the black eye Master Naasade sports for the next several days as its own victory.


	4. Chapter 4

The bouts become a regular part of their routine, and, when grudgingly curious as to when this challenge will be over, Obi-Wan looks it up on the Temple Net, he discovers that it is open ended.

People will be challenging his master till the day Obi-Wan is knighted, apparently. They practice for it, at least. Jedi who haven’t spent any real time in the salles in years are now sharpening their skills. Some of them hold a real grudge against his master, some are only doing it to amuse themselves, and some just want to be known as the knight who bested Ben Naasade.

Master Yoda shakes his head irritably at those who insist he ought to accept the challenge. “Too old, I am, for silly contests of pride. Away with you, away!”

Mace Windu, unfortunately, does not have that excuse, and the petitions that he ‘rescue’ Obi-Wan from his master increase every day. Master Naasade smiles pleasantly at him when they cross paths each morning, and the look he receives in return is increasingly dour. Obi-Wan wishes his master would please stop aggravating the councilor.

“He’s going to give us a really nasty assignment.” Obi-Wan whines plaintively. “Or send us to the outer rim in the hopes we won’t come back.”

“He will do no such thing.” His master retorts, tugging on his padawan braid.

With a solid block of time each afternoon being taken up by the challenge, Ben has taken to pulling Obi-Wan out of classes for further instruction.

“Poetry lends one sophistication! _Everyone_ takes poetry.” Obi-Wan mutters, only to be handed several datapads.

“You’ll read one each morning, and we’ll discuss it over breakfast. Trust me, after a few years, you’ll be far more eloquent than those who took _classes_.”

“ _Years_?”

He also pulled Obi-Wan from his ‘Languages of the Core System’s’ course, citing the fact that Obi-Wan came out of the crèche with a primer in half those languages and that Ben Naasade was fluent in over forty tongues, and could teach his padawan just as well.

“Forty?” Obi-Wan had gaped, impressed. With the advancement of protocol droids, most beings didn’t bother learning more than a dozen, and most Jedi didn’t bother learning more than twenty.

“Not including the sign languages or the computer languages I’ve picked up.” His master replies, distracted at the moment by trying to outwit a hiding Anakin. It’s a game Obi-Wan knows his master will lose, and eventually have to resort to bribery.

“Why?” Obi-Wan asks, somewhat aghast.

“I spent a lot of time on light-duty restrictions.” His master replies, and Obi-Wan frowns, because he can only translate that to mean ‘ _I spent a lot of time being severely injured’_. “And I find that I _like_ to be able to speak with another being on their level.” His master adds.

Obi-Wan thinks about his clumsy attempts to speak Mon Cala, but how brightly Bant responded to it, and agrees with his master on that aspect. He’s been discreetly trying to learn Mando’a from books, but he always trips over the pronunciation of the vowels, and he doesn’t want to test it on his master until he knows he can get it right.

Removing him from Jedi History had created a severe argument with the Council of First Knowledge, who were responsible for the learning standards of padawans, and his master had countered them with the assurance that they could judge the special project he assigned Obi-Wan for themselves upon its completion. If it was deemed inadequate, Obi-Wan could be re-enrolled during the next cycle.

Were he any other master, there likely wouldn’t have been an argument at all – such a practice was not uncommon, particularly once Master-Padawan pairs started accepting mission assignments. It was just…

He was Jedi Master Ben Naasade.

So Obi-Wan spends only part of his morning in classes, with broken chunks of time in between. The first is only an hour long gap, and his Master, with permission from the healers, starts easing him back into meditation, and discussing how to start restructuring his shields so that the constructs will meld into his natural defenses, and not require so much focus to maintain.

“Ironically, it will be easier to do so as your natural shields repair themselves than it would have been otherwise.” His master comments apologetically. “Though I do not recommend the method.”

“You don’t say.” Obi-Wan replies tartly. “Neither do I.”

“I do apologize, padawan.”

“Can I record that?” Obi-Wan asks. “No one will believe you actually care otherwise.”

His master frowns at that. “Does it bother you? My…reputation?”

Obi-Wan frowns back at his master, thinking it over. “I…It’s not pride.” Obi-Wan says, reflexively defensive about the prospect of being lectured on having _feelings_ , even if he knows his master isn’t like that in his way of teaching. “I just…they try and _convince_ me that you’re not a good master, and they’re _wrong_ , and they _pity_ me when I try and defend you. It just…it makes me so angry.”

“And what do you want to do with that anger?” His master asks, catching the padawan off guard.

“I…what do you mean, master?” Obi-Wan asks.

“What do you want to do with that anger?” Master Ben repeats. “Where does it go? What purpose does it serve?”

Obi-Wan is slightly stumped. The Temple answer would be to say he wants to release it into the Force, but he’s learned that quoting by rote from the code generally earns him another round of whichever frustrating exercise they’re practicing that day.

“I…want them to stop.” Obi-Wan says. “I want them to respect you. _And_ me. I know I’m not as good as my peers, but I’m _not_ an idiot, and I know I can be better, and you’re _helping_ me – you’re _not_ hurting me and I want them to stop acting like you are.”

“You want to change their minds.” His master suggests, stroking his beard thoughtfully, and tucking away Obi-Wan's self-esteem issues to tackle later.

“Um…yes.” Obi-Wan nods.

“How?”

Obi-Wan doesn’t sigh in aggravation, knowing it earned the same result as quoting the code by rote. “How?” He repeats questioningly.

His master’s lips twitch, amused at his padawan. “Yes, how. There are many ways to change anothers’ mind. You can force them, beat them into submission until they have no choice but to recognize your will. You can _Force_ them, and change the very decision inside their heads.”

“What- master, _no_!” Obi-Wan says sharply, tense and horrified at the very notion. “I’m not- I would _never_!”

“Then what is left to you?” Ben lifts a brow.

“Convince them.” Obi-Wan says firmly, and then slumps a little. “But I’m _bad_ at it.”

“Practice, padawan mine.” His master chuckles. “And until then, you must learn to live with the things you cannot change.”

“How do I do that?” Obi-Wan whines a little, feeling sullen. “It still makes me angry.”

“Learning to live with what you cannot change is a life’s work, Obi-Wan.” His master sighs, mood turning suddenly pensive. “And I’m afraid I am hardly the man to ask. I would suggest…well, Shmi would know better than any of us. Ask her.”

Obi-Wan’s second block of time is two to four hours long, depending on the day, and this is when his master paces him through the katas he’s learned, starting always with Shii-Cho, which makes Obi-Wan’s ears burn, because he’s thirteen and he’s still practicing the form most initiates move past by the time they’re _ten_ , but his master insists he continue.

Obi-Wan bites down on his embarrassment and his urge to retaliate, however, because for all his master pushes him, Obi-Wan is never alone. His master practices beside him, always an arm length away, providing guidance, and proof that this can be done.

Obi-Wan’s last few classes finish out his morning, and he grabs lunch alone or with his peers, as his master is now engaged in the challenge bouts, which he will entertain for another hour or two before attending to Obi-Wan’s training until dinner. Obi-Wan has learned to pay attention, because his master’s lessons now are interspersed with conversation about what he has personally observed on his master’s opponents, and they discuss a variety of capabilities, weaknesses, and strategy. Sometimes, when Obi-Wan thinks about it in the dark of night, he puzzles why his master is so focused on lightsaber combat.

It’s not as though he’ll find himself fighting other Jedi.

~*~

 _This is a lesson_ , Obi-Wan thinks, watching his master dance around yet another opponent. It’s not that they’re bad, really. Jedi, particularly Guardian Jedi, were skilled warriors, and each had their own unique edge to their fighting style. Against any other opponent, they were seem to be supreme fighters. Just…Master Ben was not any other opponent.

As he does with Pong Krell, Obi-Wan can tell his master is leading the other Jedi through the fights, matching their skill with just enough superiority to drag out their flaws and push their limits, proving himself just enough above them that they’ll train harder, and dare to try again.

What troubles Obi-Wan isn’t that the other Jedi fail. It’s that his master always wins. He wonders _why_ his master is so much _more_ in combat than the others are. They live on top of each other, sharing their quarters with the Skywalkers, he’s seen his master’s scars, or some of them, at least.

“You look troubled.” Shaak Ti murmurs, stepping up beside him to observe the spar. “Afraid your master will lose?” She lifts a brow, and he knows she’s kidding.

“No.” Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. “He never loses.”

“So I’ve noticed.” She murmurs, silver eyes tracking the combatants.

Obi-Wan watches her for a moment. Master Ti is pretty, and wise, and perhaps the only Jedi who might actually claim to be friends with Ben Naasade. Obi-Wan had thought Master Tahl might…but Bant had been edgy, and Tahl hadn’t come to visit since losing her challenge. Obi-Wan feels guilty about that, and he doesn’t know what to do. He hadn’t thought Master Ben and Master Tahl were _that_ much at odds.

“Does it…” Obi-Wan worries his lip, hesitating, and Shaak Ti turns her cool, gentle gaze on him. “Does it…concern you, that my master always wins?” He asks.

She ponders that for a moment, watching another young, bold knight be led around the floor.

“Do you think it should?” She returns his question with a question.

Obi-Wan squirms a bit, trying to put his thoughts into the right words. “I…I feel like it’s a lesson.” Obi-Wan whispers quietly, glancing nervously at the nearest spectators. “I feel like he’s testing…testing everyone. The Jedi. Maybe the Order? I just feel like it’s a test, and I feel like…like they’re failing, and maybe that means that we’re _all_ failing.”

Shaak Ti looks startled, and then her expression softens, turning contemplative. Her eyes scan the room, and then find Shmi in the crowd, Anakin sitting on her shoulders and a Rodian youngling sequestered in her arms. “Maybe we are.” She murmurs.

Obi-Wan startles, staring at her with wide eyes, and she offers him a secretive smile. “So what shall we do about it?” She asks.

“Um.” Obi-Wan gulps. “I…I don’t know?”

“Perhaps _that_ is the lesson, Padawan Kenobi.” She smiles. “That we do not understand the depths of what we do not know.”

“What?” He asks, thoroughly lost.

“Perhaps a lesson meant for those a bit more set in their ways than you.” She adds, eyeing his utterly confused expression with amusement. “But always something to meditate on. Excuse me.” She bows slightly, and Obi-Wan returns the gesture politely, feeling far more worried now than he was when she first spoke to him.

He returns his gaze to the bout, thinking over his troubled thoughts, and what little, and confusing, insight Shaak Ti had offered him.

 _If the lesson is that we do not understand how much we do not know_ , Obi-Wan thinks, _then the only thing we can do is learn_.

“But I’m already learning.” He mutters doubtfully.

“Learning what?”

“Siri!” Obi-Wan jumps as the girl appears at his elbow, her hair drawn back in a pony-tail, letting her ears stick out and make her seem far younger than twelve. She grins impishly at him, and plops down on the bench.

“Learning what?” She repeats, curious.

“Everything?” Obi-Wan suggests, and she rolls her eyes.

“You can’t learn everything, Obi-Wan. Nobody can – well, nobody who isn't a super-computing droid, anyway.” Siri says matter-of-factly. “So you need to focus. We all need to focus.” She adds, smoothing down her initiates tunics in a gesture of nerves all of those who nearly age-out recognize.

“On what?”

“On what we _need_ to learn.” She says, huffing. “And a little on what we _want_ to, too. Not everything in life is a sacrifice.”

Obi-Wan stares at her, which unintentionally makes her blush and look away.

Apparently, his master thought he needed to learn…Obi-Wan breaks his gaze from Siri and studies the opponents on the floor once more, studies the way his master moves, studies where the knight falters, noticing a hundred details he wouldn’t have even thought to look for a month ago.

He thinks about Sabacc, and poetry, and how the shields he’s building are not a fortress but a battleground.

Apparently, his master thought he needed to learn how to fight a war, and that thought fills his stomach with dread.


	5. Chapter 5

_I just feel like it’s a test_ , Padawan Kenobi had said, _and we’re failing_.

Shaak Ti had felt the boys words keenly. She felt exactly the same, when Shmi looked at her with those deep, sharp brown eyes, as if waiting in expectation of something Shaak could not quite grasp.

She shook her head at herself. Here she was, a Master of the Jedi Order, flailing in the dark for the want of one woman’s approval.

 _Unbecoming_ , she mused, and then frowned and banished the thought as pride. The line between confidence and arrogance, she was learning, was finer than she realized. Than most Jedi realized, perhaps. To be a full-fledged woman, a hunt-mother, a teacher, a Master, and just now recognizing that she failed to learn humility long ago is…in itself humbling.

 _Yet I would rather learn now, that never_. Shaak muses. _I would rather know_.

And she knew so much, now, saw so much that she had looked over, in herself, and in the galaxy.

To be a Jedi, to serve the Galaxy, to stand as a representative of justice, and peace, and hope, that was the embodiment of all her dreams, and Shmi had taught her that she had only ever scratched the surface of what she ought to be, of what _all_ the Jedi ought to be.

 _Failing we are indeed_. She sighs.

She had been assigned a mission to protect a diplomat travelling to Nal Hutta to negotiate trade routes. Shaak Ti had done similar assignments many times before, and any times even to Nal Hutta. The Hutts loved to play with negotiators, and the senate was frequently obliging them.

Shaak knew the great palace, the wide city streets, the dense, muggy air and the thick shadows of the swamp canopy, trailing with fibrous moss and vines flush with water. And the insects, which gave her a headache after a few hours, a constant irritating hum in her montrals, to say nothing of the way her lekku twitched at the things that lurked in the water.

But this time she had not kept herself to the streets and the grand palace. The diplomat was in no danger, and so Shaak Ti took herself to unexpected turns, winding through one market to another, away from the shiny displays and well-groomed peddlers to where the buildings began to crumple, where rust stained the water red and privacy was more often a tattered cloth than a wall, and the peddlers were bruised and missing teeth and bowed at the back. Shaak Ti smiled at grimy-faced younglings and didn’t flinch when a weathered hand grabbed hers, imploring her to look over the beads they had carved.

They were not glass and precious metal and gemstone, as the necklaces peddled in the Grand Market. These beads were scavenged seed-pods and clay, but carved painstakingly by hand into delicate figures, and Shaak Ti reached out to lift one and startled at the echoes of care and patience she could feel in each bead, pressed into the Force ingrained within in. She ran her fingers curiously over the others, some echoing laughter and contentment, some echoing sorrow, some faintly and some strongly. It wasn’t an unheard of art, to imbue the Force into a work, but it took so much _time_ that the Jedi had fallen away from the practice. Shaak Ti lifted a bracelet of pale clay beads and black seed-pods, carved into some kind of delicate fish and broad-petaled flowers, that pervaded a sense of tranquility she rarely found outside the Temple gardens, and recognized that she held months of someone’s life in that simple strand.

Republic credits were less useful on Nal Hutta than Cho-mar, but the grandfather accepted them with a smile, and looked away blushing when Shaak Ti lifted his weathered hand, clasped between her own, and pressed it to her brow in honor.

She had wandered that market into narrower alleys and walkways, and come abruptly into a small floating plaza surrounded by slave-quarters, her ears drawn to a creaking voice, telling a story. A scarred Evocci woman sat on a crate, wrapped in ragged shawls, and a pack of younglings of various species sprawled on the rough planks around her, listening intently.

To Shaak Ti’s surpise, it was a familiar story – it was an Ekkreth story, where they tricked the Depur into lingering in the desert – or in this case, in the deep swamp. Just wait a little longer, Ekkreth promised, three times over, and you can capture my youngest children with me. A little longer, and you can capture my eldest children. A little longer, and you can capture my eldest daughter, the most beautiful and renowned of all my children.

And the Depur believed them.

“And as before, it was just as Ekkreth said-“ The storyteller faltered, catching sight of Shaak Ti, and the children startled, afraid of the stranger.

“When the fifteen minutes had passed, Ekkreth’s eldest daughter came.” Shaak Ti continued the story, bowing politely to the storyteller, whose eyes widen in shock and surprise. The children turn curiously. “She came with a terrible roar and a thunder of wings and the blast of storm out of the –“ Shaak Ti faltered, remembering that Nal Hutta was not a desert planet. “- wild swamp. She came with fury and death. The water trembled, and Depur’s slavers fell upon the ground in terror, and some turned and ran, and others tried to fight, but their weapons and all their chains were useless.”

The storyteller smiled, relief deep in the lines of her face, and retook the tale. “For Depur had forgotten what all Ar-Amu’s children know: that the eldest daughter of Ekkreth the Trickster is Dragonsnake, who swims the deep channels and fears nothing, for none can stand against her.

“So Depur was destroyed, and Ekkreth and all their children freed. And that is the tale of how Ekkreth tricked Depur, and freed themself and all their children from slavery.”

“Always remember, younglings.” The storyteller looks to each of them in turn, receiving their full regard. “No depur can hold us forever.”

“I’ll remember.” The children say reverently, and then each bounces up and they crowd the storyteller, hands touching hearts and lips and then reaching out to brush over the elder’s hands, and Shaak Ti does the same.

“You are Amaleia.” The woman murmured, gripping her hand, her rheumy eyes staring back at Shaak Ti. Shaak Ti tilted her head curiously, and the old woman cleared her throat, hoarse and frail. “You carry the dragon inside you.” She said. “For you have always been and always will be free.”

“I…” It sounded like an admonishment, an accusation. The old evocci woman shook her head.

“You are Amaleia.” She repeated, squeezing Shaak Ti’s hand. “You are one of us. No.” She paused, frowning, and turns Shaak Ti’s hand over, running her worn fingers over the grooves of her orange skin, and eyeing the lightsaber on her belt. “You are on the path. You are not yet there, else you would not be so lost. Amavikka _know_ who they are.”

Shaak Ti had carried that with her through the entire mission, spending her days watching the depur of Nal Hutta be bargained with by a representative of the Galactic Republic, and her nights in the slave-quarter, tending wounds as well as she could, sharing her rations, and listening to stories. Some of them are more familiar than she would expect, and some of them are new. There is no Lukka in Nal Hutta stories. Lukka is for desert worlds. Nal Hutta has Ru, the boy who lived and drowned and lived again. In Nal Hutta, it is not the sandstorm, but the water which takes you; And Nal Hutta has Abbu-Dabbu, the swamp witch, who leads the lost into her home of salt. If you a true, and humble, and clever, she will give you what you need to set yourself free. If you are not, if you betray your kind, if take from those who suffer more than you do, if you succor yourself at the expense of others, she will eat you, for you are depur too.

Shaak Ti sits at the Hutt’s table, and smiles when they leer at her, and leaves that planet with six more passengers than when she arrived. The diplomat knows nothing of them, and earned nothing from the Hutts. He’ll go back again soon.

Knight Dahvo, the zygerrian who confronted her at the archives, helps them find their way into the care of those who move the Freedom Trail, once they arrive on Cosruscant, and Shaak Ti finds herself hesitant to let them go, those she has rescued.

“You are only a rung in the ladder.” Dahvo tells her, when he sees the want to hold on in her eyes. “They make their climb to freedom themselves, else it is not _theirs_.”

She learns not to ask questions, not to chase when they go. They are all safer that way, and still, _still_ , Shmi looks at her, and waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~ the Tatooine slave story Shaak Ti hears on Nal Hutta, slightly altered, come from Fialleril's Double Agent Vader series, as does much of the Tatooine Slave Culture mythos. (You have no idea how many fics i read inspired by their mythos before i figured out it wasn't canon somewhere)


	6. Chapter 6

Obi-Wan is getting very good at looking placidly back at the teachers who frown at him when he passes them as he leaves class. If he frowns back, or scowls, or roll his eyes, they mutter that he is too emotional, that his master has a bad effect on his temper, that perhaps he _should_ have gone to the Agricorps.

So. Placid. Calm and still as a pond, and just as unreadable.

Everything he is not feeling at the moment.

Every morning, Obi-Wan reads a poem when he wakes up. (He reads two, actually. He’s studying the Mandalorian poetry first, but it’s the Alderaani Epics he discusses with his master. He wants to try and understand Mandalore, and therefor his master, a little better first.)  They share breakfast, wherein he and his master discuss meaning and turns of phrase and depth, and Anakin has evolved from a fruit thief to a syrup hound, and Master Ben reads off the list of challenges for the day, making note of any he thinks his padawan should find especially interesting.

Today, Master Qui-Gon Jinn had been on the list, and Master Ben had felt very agitated about that. Obi-Wan had hidden his own frown, and hurt, because why should Jinn fight Ben now, when he had so soundly rejected having anything to do with Obi-Wan before? When Obi-Wan had asked – had all but _begged_ to be his padawan.

So Master Ben is agitated, and so Obi-Wan is agitated.

It doesn’t help that he is no longer so exhausted at the end of each day, and that his dreams are still so often turbulent and dark. His master can’t work with him as long, with the constant endless stream of challengers, and so the pace of his training has been greatly reduced.

On the other hand, his performance in his classes is improving. Astronavigation especially, which is time-consuming and tedious, if simple. He often spends some of the less interesting bouts studying his star charts.

He’s all but bouncing in his seat by the time he’s released for his second class-gap, ducking placid-faced under his instructors frown.

Master Ben had chosen the timing of his bout with Jinn to match up with Obi-Wan’s schedule, but also, the padawan thinks, to keep it more private. This early in the day, and most padawans and younger knights were busy, and the audience would be much smaller even if rumor did get around that Master Naasade was facing one of the best duelists in the Order.

Obi-Wan expects it to be a long one, not just because Jinn is reportedly so good, but because his master seemed particularly displeased, and when Master Ben was displeased, he made rather a long point about it. Endless repetitions of Shii-Cho, leading Pong Krell about the salle by the nose, a three-hour-long meditation while he attempted to wait out Master Yoda’s patience.

He did not, in fact, wait out Master Yoda’s patience.

There are a dozen or so masters and a dozen or so more elders in attendance, a few senior padawans, and only a handful of knights when Obi-Wan arrives. Master Ben is already on the floor, in a sleevless tunic of red-and-orange layers. To be fair, half the Jedi are in sleeveless tunics today. Something has malfunctioned in the atmospheric systems, and it’s rather warm and humid in the Temple. Warm, Obi-Wan’s master has no trouble with. Humid, on the other hand, seems to test his serenity.

The sleeveless tunic reveals, among others, the deep lightsaber scar on his bicep, which can be mistaken for nothing else. Obi-Wan can feel the speculation its existence creates. He doesn’t focus on it, or on the knowledge that his master bears several such scars.

Master Qui-Gon Jinn, on the other hand, seems less troubled, in tradition beige's and browns, standing meditatively while Master Ben waits for his padawan.

Obi-Wan receives a quick, tight smile from his master, and Master Qui-Gon opens his eyes, regarding them both and then focusing on Naasade as Obi-Wan takes a seat.

Master Naasade offers his typical saber-salute, and Qui-Gon Jinn lunges.

Obi-Wan was wrong. It’s not a long spar. In fact, it’s practically over just as soon as it seemed to fall into place. Master Naasade does not draw Jinn out, does not lead him across the salle.

He _destroys_ him.

Master Ben breaks through Jinn’s guards and defenses with overwhelming force, falling fast and brutal and disarming him viciously.

Obi-Wan flinches as the other Jedi’s saber clatters across the floor and rolls to Obi-Wan’s feet. He doesn’t pick it up, gaping instead at his master. Ben turns sharply away from his shocked opponent, who was on his knees with a copper blade leveled just at the hollow of his throat, and looks back to Obi-Wan, saber blinking out.

“Time for our lesson, padawan?” He inquires, striding away from Jinn, who looks both alarmed and shaken.

Obi-Wan glances between the two, closes his mouth, and nods. They leave, the saber still lying on the floor where it landed by Obi-Wan’s feet.

Obi-Wan has a thousand questions he doesn’t ask, and through the fragile bond between them, he can feel something like grief pouring out of his master.

~*~

“Something troubling you, Master Ti?” Plo Koon inquires, voice slightly amused, and the younger Master grimaces in embarrassment, realizing that she had sighed, deeply, yet again, disturbing him from the quiet peace of the gardens.

“Yoda says that ‘good teachers, student’s make’.” Shaak Ti murmurs. “He doesn’t tell you that sometimes you have to learn something from them before they can learn anything from you. He doesn’t tell you that sometimes you don’t know what it is you need to be learning.”

Plo chuckles at her. “The vexation of padawans. Sometimes, the master chooses the student, sometimes the student must choose the master.”

“And sometimes, the Force just wills it.” Shaak Ti adds dryly.

“Perhaps.” Plo nods. “But if all things were simply as the Force willed it, there would be no need for Jedi.”

Shaak Ti peers at him for that bit of philosophy, unexpected as it was. “Do you believe so?”

He looks back at her, his presence in the Force shifting like clouds. You could see it, but you could never quite reach out and touch it. “No.” He says, surprisingly her further. “Balance is not always kind, little hunter. There would always be a need for Jedi, and a reason for us to act.”

Shaak Ti frowns. “Balance is peace.” She replied, as the Temple taught.

“Then balance is impossible.” He says slowly. “Peace is a state of being, but it is not life.”

“Master Koon…”Shaak protests, and he raises a passive hand.

“You are a huntress, Master Ti. You are peaceful, yes, but it is not all you are, and it never can be, can it?” He asks calmly, as settled and solid as the tree behind him.

Shaak Ti searches within herself, though her heart already knows he has spoken the truth. She is a Jedi, she sought peace and prosperity and justice, and yet she was a Togruta of Shili, she earned her womanhood in the Hunt, and it has shaped her into who she is today.

“No.” She replies.

“It’s _my_ life!” A youngling shrieks, and both masters startle at the shrill sound, Shaak wincing deeply. She moves to rise but glances at Master Koon, who merely waves her on to do as she pleases, content to let their conversation lie. She moves quietly through the gardens, tracking out the argument she can hear ahead.

“You can’t just not be a Jedi!” Another youngling argues angrily. “It’s not fair!”

“How is it fair if I don’t _want_ to be a Jedi!” The first youngling replies, a zeltron boy with petal-pink skin and ink black hair.

“How can you not?” The second youngling, a rodian girl, shoots back.

“Ban, it is a great privilege to be raised in the Temple.” A crèchemaster says, sighing. “And an honor to be chosen as a padawan.”

“But I don’t want to be his padawan! I don’t want to be a Jedi!” Ban shouts, leaking distress into the Force.

“You are strong in the Force, a good student, and an apt combatant. You’ve even expressed great delight at lightsaber combat.” The crèchemaster implores. “You would throw it all away? That is not sensible. I do not think you understand-“

“I do! I do understand!” The boy protests. “And I don’t want it! I want to be able to feel emotions, I want to dance, I want to make people happy and I’m _good_ at that too!”

“You’re giving up knighthood because you like to waltz around the dorms?” The rodian girl spits. “That’s stupid!”

“Initiate Reehu!” The crèchemaster scolds, and then turns back to Ban. “Ban, the way of the Jedi is not easy, and I’m sure you _think_ you know what you want, but-“

Shaak Ti watches the boys face crumple, watches his distress churn into despair, and loneliness, and in her minds eye she can see it, a glimpse of his future. He’s a magnificent knight, with a green blade in hand, deflecting blaster bolts with grace – and then he is sitting in the gardens, this very garden, and he looks around and his eyes – there is hopelessness in his eyes. He is brilliant, strong and he is unhappy, trapped, and there is a thought on his mind, a singular – _surely death is no different than this_?

Shaak Ti blinks, eyes burning, and he is a little boy, and he is seeing that future for himself at this very moment.

 _There are a thousand ways to be enslaved_ , Shmi had whispered.

“Crèchemaster.” Shaak Ti calls, stepping forward, and the three in the argument jolt at her sudden appearance from the tall ferns. Shaak Ti will admit that the huntress in her enjoys it, just a bit.

“Master Ti!” The crechemaster bows, seeming flustered. “I apologize for our noise, if we disturbed you-“

“It is not that.” Shaak Ti assures them. “May I borrow Initiate Ban?” She inquires.

The zeltron boy winces, and covers it poorly, fingers curling into his tunics, but the crèchemaster nods. He sullenly follows her away from the others, and she leads him out of the gardens. The corridor is quiet, as it is not quite mid-day.

“Is dancing an enjoyment, or a career path, Initiate Ban?” Shaak Ti inquires, once the boy has stopped hunching so tightly, relaxing as they walked, soothed by her calm in the natural way of empaths.

“I- I saw a holo of the water dancers of Chandrila.” He says shyly. “And I’ve practiced all twelve Alderaani high waltzes and have you seen the Rylothi Ballet? I…I’m a good dancer, but I want to be _that_ good. And I can be. I _know_ I can be. That’s what I want to do with my life. I like being a Jedi, but I _love_ dancing. It’s so full of – of… _life_ , and it makes people happy, and I just…I want people to be happy.” The boy sighs, sounding defeated, and Shaak Ti reaches out to brush her fingers through his hair. He looks up shyly, surprised.

“Well,” Shaak Ti says. “ you can’t just run off and join the Rylothi Ballet.” He slumps. “However,” She smiles secretively. “ what you can do is look up accredited dance programs here on Coruscant, and see if we can’t find any that suit you.”

“Wha- r-really?” He asks, gaze full of hope.

“Really.” Shaak Ti says softly, chest aching. “You _are_ free, Ban, to choose the path your life will take. Just do so…wisely.”

“But I was asked by a knight to become his padawan.” The initiate blurts.

“And you have the right to say no.” Shaak Ti says firmly.

“I can _really_ choose to dance?” He asks tremulously.

“ _Really_.” Shaak Ti nods. “Provided we can get you qualified for any of the dance programs and provided that you still finish your education. On that matter, the Jedi will not budge.”

“Of course, right. I know that. I – just – I can go to dance school!” He bounces, his excitement flooding the hallway, bright as sunshine.

~*~

Shmi finds her, later, after she has spent an entire afternoon downloading brochures and applications with a very energetic young empath. Her montrals are still buzzing with the sheer _Force_ wrapped up in all his energy. She makes a note to see to it that if he leaves the temple for a Dance Program, he continues to study with an EduCorps tutor on how to utilize those Force abilities safely in his chosen path.

Still, Shaak Ti feels lighter than she has in weeks when Shmi approaches her after the dinner hour, Anakin soundly asleep on her shoulder.

They walk in companionable silence for awhile, working their way towards their living sectors via the scenic route of the gardens.

Shmi takes in a deliberate breath. “ _Kai_.” She says softly. Shaak Ti looks to her curiously, and Shmi smiles. She doesn’t have her sons sweet looks, but in the shadows of evening, and revealing her own face, there is something far more precious about Shmi’s fragile smile. “It means yes, in the language of _our_ people.”

Shaak Ti misses a step and pauses. Shmi watches her, eyes ever-sharp. Shaak Ti lifts a hand to heart, and then her lips. “Then I am honored to claim you as my Padawan, Shmi _Ekkreth_.”

“And I am honored to walk this path with you, _Maratt_ Shaak Ti _Jedan_.” Shmi returns the gesture, and reaches out to grasp Shaak Ti’s hand.

“ _Maratt_?” Shaak asks, lacing her orange fingers into Shmi’s pale ones, able to parse _jedan_ to mean something akin to ‘of the Jedi’.

“It means ‘one who protects and guides’.” Shmi smiles. “In Amatakka.”

Shaak Ti snorts softly through her nose, having the feeling that there is a grand question as to who will be guiding whom.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Amavikka and Amaleia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20454575) by [TRCunning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TRCunning/pseuds/TRCunning)




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